Eleven Plus Forty-Two Equals Love — Elizabeth T. Brunetti

I was supposed to be at a different restaurant tonight.

There are two AAA four-diamond restaurants in Pittsburgh. I booked a table at the one that had a stolen pickup truck crash into it a few weeks ago. So now I’m at the second one: Eleven Contemporary Kitchen, in the Strip District.

My server will be wonderful. I can tell as soon as she walks up to my table. She’s got glasses, a low ponytail holding back her wavy auburn hair, and black, intricate tattoos peeking out from her rolled-up shirt sleeves.

For that split second before we initially interact, she’s in classic Server Neutral. She doesn’t know what kind of table I’ll be. (Have I mentioned that I’m dining solo this evening?) I give her a big smile and I tell her I’m very much looking forward to this meal, and how upon reviewing the menu online, I almost booked this place twice because I wanted to try everything. She’s relaxed now. She returns the smile. I love it when they relax; it’s the highest compliment a diner can receive.

I order a cocktail.

Cocktail Moment: Pears Well

Pea Flower-infused Plymouth gin, pear, pink peppercorn, cinnamon, lemon. $13.

a beautiful pinkish-purple gin cocktail served over ice in a lowball glass and garnished with a twist of lemon — Pears Well cocktail at Eleven Contemporary Kitchen, Pittsburgh.

It was the “pea flower-infused Plymouth gin” that got me. That, and the pear. I’m a sucker for pear cocktails. Just as I knew it would be, when my drink is delivered, it’s that gorgeous magenta-mauve that’s only achieved with the butterfly pea extract mingles with the acidity of citrus. The cocktail is light and refreshing, though I admit that I’m missing my beloved pear. I’ll allow it.

It’s time to order food.

I ask my server for help. I’m struck by how friendly she is. So delightfully friendly — like she’s genuinely happy to talk to me, a total stranger. This is one of the reasons I love higher-end dining experiences. It’s not just the food; it’s the ambience, the service, from entrance to exit. So far, Eleven is hitting all the marks. The restaurant comprises two floors, and I’m seated on the lower level so I have a window in front of me that’s approximately 18 inches wide, but two stories tall. As my meal progresses, I’ll note the way the shadows on the curtains, silhouettes of the leaves on the trees outside, dance and shift as the sun sets.

But back to the food.

We examine the menu together. I truly can’t decide what to order. It all looks so good, and the thing about dining solo is that you can’t order a bunch of different things to share with your companions. You’re on your own, inherently limited. The pressure is on.

My server’s only worked at the restaurant for a few weeks, so she hasn’t tried everything, but she definitely has some favorites. She points them out to me. I then realize that as she’s pointing to and describing dishes, I’m waiting , hoping, praying for her to point to and describe two in particular. That tells me everything I need to know. I place my order.

The hostess seats a couple at the table across from me; they’re seated directly under that two-story window. I notice them right away; there’s something about them. They look to be in their mid-60s. A vibrant and active mid-60s. A 21st-century mid-60s. The woman’s hair is a close-cropped, no-nonsense pixie cut, speckled with grays and whites. She’s wearing a black-and-white flower-patterned shirt and black slacks. The man’s got a full head of well-coiffed and controlled white hair. He’s wearing a sport coat and loafers. They’re definitely on a date.

First Course: Beet Salad

Green gazpacho, grapes, almonds, Belgium endive, poppy seed vinaigrette, feta. $14.

Beet Salad at Eleven Contemporary Kitchen, Pittsburgh.

“There’s a little jalapeño in it,” my server had told me. She loves the green gazpacho aspect of this dish. She positively gushed about the green. As the food runner places the dish in front of me, I remember the list of in-green-ients the server rattled off from her notebook: apple, celery, parsley…

It’s beautifully presented and composed. When it comes to composition, I’m a woman of extremes. I like my food either completely smushed together (tacos, soups, etc.) or thoughtfully constructed, like the dish sat before me right now. I get to decide whether a bite will be entirely beet, or grape and almond, or beet, feta, and endive … I could do the math to calculate the number of possible combinations, but I’d rather dig in.

Did you think the pink pieces were watermelon? So did I. Nope. They’re beets. All of it is beets. I’ve never seen beets this color before, and never tasted them so mild and sweet. As you may know, I have a love-hate relationship with beets. Often, they taste like dirt to me. But not these. They’re light, smooth, with just a hint of earth. They’re perfect. Goodness me, perfect beets. I never thought I’d eat the day.

I sit there, silently and happily coming up with flavor combinations on my fork, when she comes back to check on me. She knows I know how good it is. She’s got that look in her eyes, “Was I right, or was I right?”

“It’s fantastic,” I say. “I like my beets elevated like this. Which is ironic, given that they’re a root vegetable.”

She laughs. It’s a real laugh. When humor is your defense mechanism, you learn to distinguish genuine guffaws from polite placations.

She leaves me to my beety reverie.

They’re holding hands. The couple across from me. They’re holding hands and they’re looking each other in the eye, in that tuned-in way you do with people with whom you feel a deep sense of connection. They’re so … into each other. I am awestruck at their engagement.

While I figure out how to balance Marcona almonds and grapes on the back of my fork (like the fancy lady I know myself to be), I start to formulate their story in my head.

Second Course: Herb & Ricotta Pansotti

Shrimp, pine nuts, corn, blistered tomatoes, thyme, lemon butter. $38

Herb and Ricotta Pansotti. Eleven Contemporary Kitchen, Pittsburgh.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten gluten since July 2021 (when my registered-dietician stepsister analyzed my test results and told me I had a gluten sensitivity).

This is one of those times. And it is so worth it.

This pansotti, a stuffed pasta, reminds me of a cross between a tortellini and a ravioli. The herbed-ricotta centers are surrounded by copious amounts of what I’m positive is handmade pasta. It’s a golden, eggy color and has a distinct, satisfying chew to its texture. Only handmade pasta makes flour, egg, and water taste meaty.

The pansotti are accompanied by delicate, velvety shrimp, fresh corn, and toasted pine nuts. And the sauce — oh the lemony, buttery goodness of the sauce. By the time I’ve finished this course, I’ll have perfected balancing this liquid gold onto a wedge of pasta.

My server comes over to check on me, and I give her an ecstasy-laden eye roll and moan of pleasure as a response. I didn’t remember her name until a few minutes ago, when an inebriated woman about ten feet away from me summoned her to her party’s table with a raised hand and a “NATALIE!!!” so now I know that her name is Natalie. I also know that that tipsy broad is not my kind of people. I check on The Couple.

They continue their pre-dinner conversation, hands still entwined, conversation still bubbling with connection. Their server arrives with their drinks. There’s a beer and a glass of white wine on her tray.

I didn’t think The Couple could delight me any more than they already have, but they do. In a fanciful twist of expectations, the white wine is for him. The beer is for her.

Oh, who are they? My mind starts working as I take another bite of my perfectly al dente pasta, forked with a bit of shrimp and dripping with lemon butter. Have they been together for decades? Hell no, there’s no way, says my inner cynic. (Actually, I’m a realist.) I admit it, the odds are not in their favor. No one is that happy and into their partner decades into a relationship.

Okay, then. Perhaps they met later in life. A post-divorce connection, or perhaps a midlife crisis that actually ended well. I continue my observations to see which picture fits them best. And then I notice their hands.

He’s wearing a wedding ring; she isn’t.

Third Course: Candy Bar

Chocolate olive oil cake, peanut butter cream, chocolate malt ice cream. $11

Oh dear. Am I witnessing an illicit affair? Did he leave the wife and kids home to take his lover into the city for a nice meal?

I hate the thought of it — the deception, the betrayal. It makes me feel icky inside. But then my dessert arrives and all ickiness evaporates in a cloud of cocoa-tinged smoke.

Earlier, Natalie had mentioned to The Couple that the restaurant’s pastry department was housed in an area to my left, The Couple’s right — just past the tables. That’s a sign of quality, for sure. Housing the pastry area separate from the main kitchen affords the pastry chef more control over the room’s temperature and humidity, which, when off kilter, can flatten a puff pastry or dis-temper a chocolate. My second sign of quality? Natalie told me she was a chocolatier and candymaker before working here. She gave the desserts her sugary seal of approval.

She did warn me of one thing: She said the Candy Bar was rich and powerful. Upon tasting the main “candy bar” portion of the dish, I caught the “rich,” but not the “powerful.” And then a tiny taste of the artful smear of peanut-butter caramel smacked me in the face. Pow! It was intense, and definitely needed pairing with either a spoonful of the malted chocolate ice cream or another bite of the candy bar to tame it. It just goes to show that chefs know what they’re doing when they compose a dish in a particular way; each component lends itself to the others. Part of the fun of fine dining is in the infinite combinations and ratios of what the restaurant has placed before you.

My meal is done. I am utterly satisfied, except for one thing: I want to know, for sure, what The Couple’s story is. I’m bolstered by solitude and carbohydrates. I decide. I’m going to go for it. I am going to talk to strangers.

They’ve just finished their appetizers. I’ve just paid my check. There’s a distinct lull. Before I can talk myself out of it, I leave the safety of my own table and walk the five or six steps and enter their sacred space.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but I just have to ask — are you two a couple?”

They exchange a funny glance — they’re probably wondering why I started with such an odd question, but my anxiety couldn’t stay in the back seat, apparently, and it forced those to be the first words to escape my mouth, just in case they were really, really close siblings. We don’t want to presume, my Anxiety says with fragile condescension.

“Yes,” says the woman.

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice from my table over there that you are so very clearly in love.” They appreciate that compliment. Their guards lower a bit. “May I ask how long you’ve been together?”

They’ve been married for 42 years. Forty-two years, friends. They married young. They raised three kids, who are grown and out of the house. They’re here celebrating their 42nd wedding anniversary.

I’m marveled. I ask them how they’ve done it. How they’ve held onto the love and connection for so long. They look at each other for a long while. I don’t blame them; how do you sum up 42 years of … everything?

Then, the wife says, “We’ve been lucky. And committed.”

Of course.

And of course.

Thank goodness for that stolen pickup truck.